


so honey sing

by scrubbadub



Category: South Park
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Pining, Yearn, man sometimes u just gotta, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 08:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: You don't have to sing it right,Who could call you wrong?You put your emptiness to melody,Your awful heart to song;You don't have to sing it nice, but honey sing it strong,At best, you find a little remedy, at worst the world will sing along--To Noise Making (Sing) by HozierPoetry in motion and form. (dip pining)





	so honey sing

There is the softest, tiniest realization, there, in the back of Damien's mind, that this is a moment he would never wish to jeopardize, and it is slightly terrifying a revelation to have.

Be still, he whispers quietly, be still, my heart, fear not for the wandering waves of love that echo across his cavernous mind, be still, but it does not, because he glimpses Heaven and witnesses perfection. There is a moment, then, he wanders in the ashes of his rebirth and wanders, wonders softly, softer than he ever expected himself to be able to, is this mine? Will this last?

"Damien?" 

The moment breaks. He's left with nothing but disjointed thoughts and a wanting heart, and some of the ache is brushed away when he turns and faces the bemused accuser in question. "Yeah?"

"You were staring off again. Are you all right?"

Oh, if he had an answer for that, he'd answer- but to answer would beguile, would leave Pip worried and trembling, fearful for him in his sadness and confusion, so he does not answer. Instead he chuckles and shrugs, a non committal, pointless gesture, a here nor there, and grins sharply. "Yeah, sure, you could say that."

"Oh, well- if you're sure. You just seemed a little forlorn."

Too true to wish it wasn't, he supposes, but Pip is correct in his observations. "... I dunno, man. I was just… thinking."

"What about?" To have this conversation will spell the end of him- and that, he fears, is the worst consequence of all.

If he is to spill his heart, here, lay himself bare in front of the man he blew sky high as a child, to meet him halfway in the sea of regret he's made for himself- what then? What will he do then, if rejected? Surely die, that's what, and his father will shake his head and call him a fool.

Endearingly, of course. He was never capable of true criticisms when it came to discipline and fatherhood.

"... It's stupid."

"Oh, don't give me that, Damien. You'll say it's silly and then you'll sulk." This is true, but a pox be on Pip for telling the truth like that. He doesn't have to say it. Let his awful soul fester for a bit. What harm will it do that it has not done already? "Come on. Do tell. We can get something nice to eat afterwards, if that'd help any."

He mulls it over. "... I like you." He feels his heart flinch. 

"Oh! Well, I quite enjoy your company as well, Damien!"

"That's not what I mean." Of course he'd assume familiarity and friendship over solidarity and romantics. A fat chance in Hell he has in ever getting Pip to realize that he'd rather hold him so close his chest might explode, rather than, well… poke dying demons with sticks in the underground, something only they can do.

"Then what do you mean by it?"

What does he mean by it? He thinks.

… he means tender gripped hand holds in the dimming sunlight glittering through from Hell’s maw; he means stealing trips to the overpass to steal from the rich, just enough to spare a trip to a fast food place, dipping french fries in his ice cream and smearing dirt on his face in muddy, clouded days-

He begs forgiveness for his sins and prays, quietly, not to God but to his father, for something good he’s able to hold in his hands, and he is gifted this. This man, this angel fallen just for him, something only he can treasure in the burnt, charred remains of his home. It has always been like this. It has always been burnt.

There is just something brighter here, now.

“... I like your face.” That is not what he means to come out of his mouth, but it stumbles out like staccato on a drum, holds his tongue hostage, and he feels bitter. To be able to voice what he thinks, to shout loud the sensations of his emotion, what a feeling that would be. Yet here he is, confined to this ailing, nervous body, unable to do much but struggle to form the words in his mouth proper.

“Oh- you do? Well, I like yours too!”

“No, Pip, I mean- I like your face.” There is a wall of words threatening to choke him, but the firelight frames his face, shades it just right, and he is caught by the stun of it all. He is lost in the sunlight of Pip’s being, his radiance, and he drowns in it. “I like-- you have nice eyes. And I like your cheeks.”

“... oh. Oh-” Now he understands. Perhaps not to the extent that he would like him to, but partially. While he drowns, Pip rises to his own surface, breaches the top of his recognition, and he is left to suffer without; it is his consequence.

“... well, I suppose my statement still stands, then, Damien, I like your face too.” Hm?

“You- shit, you do?”

“Of course! I like the way your cheeks quirk up when you smile. It’s quite endearing!” He… finds that he is less lost, with the reassurance, the reciprocation, an olive branch in a sea of blood and sin, something he can grab onto- and he takes it, grasps it desperately, because if not this, then what else does he have? Is he allowed the soft enchantment of a compliment, a love that stretches throughout childhood, one that threatens to overwhelm him?

It will not last, he knows this. It will simmer, and he will go back to being bitter and cold and dull, and he will do what has to be done- but for now, he will cherish it, relish, drown in the monument of it, because it’s all he feels he has, at the moment.

“Oh. … that’s, uh. Nice.” Why can’t he simply speak?

“Was that all, Damien?”

“... I think so.” He finds that his yearning is a little less close to him, now. Hurts less. … he finds that acceptable.


End file.
